


Roadhead

by prodigalsanyo



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Consensual Underage Sex, First Meetings, Hitchhiking, M/M, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:41:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29479380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigalsanyo/pseuds/prodigalsanyo
Summary: Teen Malcolm nopes out of private school after expulsion.  Along comes a stranger in a black muscle car.  Teen Malcolm embarks on fast and loose times.  Underage PWP.  Broyo AU.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	Roadhead

**Author's Note:**

> Important: By backing this project you confirm that you are not a Kink Shamer, you are in no way consciously affiliated with Kink Shamer(s), you are not backing this on behalf of Kink Shamer(s) or an associate of Kink Shamer(s). To the best of your knowledge, information and belief this material will not make its way into the hands of Kink Shamer(s). Thank you, come again.

Malcolm Bright, sixteen, throws his prep school uniform away before he voluntarily vacates the properties of Remington, a feeder school for Harvard University. He has a black gym duffel bag filled with casual wear, his money clip, and photo ID. His student ID is already shredded. He doesn't need a house key when there's always staff at home awaiting his arrival, attending to his every need until young master is settled.

He is expelled from Remington. His dreams of Harvard went poof. All that he can expect in his future is the chauffeur shuttling him to Manhattan. Then Malcolm will be confronted with his mother's honeyed voice and the betrayal in her eyes when she asks why he did it. He has compromised her position on the school board where members knew her family and treat her as a Milton, despite the embarrassment.

A faculty member waits outside Remington with Malcolm. When a black Audi pulls up, Malcolm indicates to his chaperone that it is the family's driver.

"Isn't your mother coming to collect you herself, son?" asks the faculty.

"She's busy with a prior engagement," says Malcolm. He goes to the black Audi which has its emergency flashers blinking.

"Mr. Jones?" asks the taxi driver.

Malcolm climbs in and pokes two crisp Benjamins through the fiberglass partition. "I'm Mr. Jones. Wherever you are meant to take me, re-route to I-78 W, if you please." Malcolm gives him the business address of a rest stop between New York and Trenton, NJ. The taxi driver also receives additional compensation for ferrying the incorrect patron.

The rest stop is a plaza for the food court and fueling stations.

Malcolm slings his duffel over his shoulder and inspects his appearance in the communal bathroom mirror. His outfit includes a soft blue fleece long sleeve button up, white T-shirt, and slim cut denims. He's shod with dark dress socks and brown loafers. He is keenly aware of his youthful school aged appearance. The watch doesn't age him up at all, just makes him look like he's copying a suburban father figure.

Malcolm purchases sunglasses and a black and red ball cap for the New Jersey Devils. A black leather jacket hangs on the back of a chair in the food court area. Malcolm polishes off a bag of Red Vines and a Perrier bottle, before circling toward the table and pulling it on. Malcolm heads out quickly, darting past the gas station and rolling a leap over a bent, rusted guard rail. After a beat, Malcolm tosses his Blackberry phone into the weeds.

A couple truckers startle him when they blow their horn. As they do not stop and pull over to bother him, Malcolm ignores the noise and continues trekking west. It's not a hot day, but the sunlight radiating from miles of greasy asphalt makes him lightheaded. The leather jacket hangs off his duffel bag strap, away from his skin until he can find shade.

"A little more. Just go a little further and then you can hitch a ride," Malcolm tells himself. The licorice leaves a film on his teeth that makes him too thirsty for Slim Jims and caramel popcorn. He daydreams about tall trees that will stop the sun.

It's dusk when Malcolm encounters a black Pontiac parked in an emergency zone with blinkers on.

"Hey! Hey, you!" hears Malcolm.

Malcolm's loafers crunch gravel, sand, and glass. He keeps going, looking over his shoulder for cars before he walks around the black Pontiac. He notes the New York license plate.

"Hey! Hey!" The window rolls down and a man sticks his head out. He has black hair, a short beard, and a ring on his finger as he taps his car door to get Malcolm's attention.

"May I help you, sir?" Malcolm approaches cautiously.

"Can you help me? You're funny, kid. Where you headed to? If you got family in Jersey, I can drop you," says the stranger.

"I'm not going to New Jersey," answers Malcolm. "Furthermore, I am not a kid."

"You're not gonna get past the tunnel, the way you're going. Hop in," says the man. "It'll be sundown. Someone could hit you. It would be a waste, baby."

Malcolm sweats his indecision for a long moment. He had been holding out for a family van or a group of friends in the party wagon. At this point, he would take a small bathroom to wipe himself down with damp paper towels. Malcolm pushes his sunglasses to the bridge of his nose. Between his eyewear and ballcap, only half his face is visible. If the stranger talks to police later, the man would only be able to provide Malcolm's height around 5'5" and skinny body type. Plenty of white guys with brown hair in the region.

"My destination is south," says Malcolm. "If you wish to assist, I would be grateful if you drop me off at journey's end, wherever that may be for you, sir."

"Journey's end," repeats the man. "I like your style, baby. As it so happens, I'm on the road 'til I hit ocean. Wouldn't mind company, if company doesn't mind me."

"That will suit my disposition quite well, thank you, if you're amenable to companionship." Malcolm pulls on the leather jacket. 

"Okay, never mind on where you're going. Who are you and where you from, talking like that?" 

"Mal," answers Malcolm. "I am Mal." He smiles to himself when he gets into a stranger's car, because he selects a Latin root word which translates to evil.

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I'm Gil," says the man, in exchange. 

Gil is tan in skin color. Malcolm spies the grays in his short beard, and wisps of gray just over Gil's ears. If not for the touches of gray and the wrinkles when Gil squints at the GPS navigator on his dash, Gil could pass for late 30s. He must be in his 40s, Malcolm figures. Gil must've been working for years and years to take time off from work to wander.

Malcolm isn't overly weary of Gil. It's difficult to work up any paranoia towards a polite older man in a knitted turtleneck.

"So Mal is an interesting name," comments Gil.

"It means 'bad,' says Malcolm.

"How bad?" asks Gil.

Gil drives the Pontiac into Holland Tunnel. Instead of the warm pink and indigo streaks in the sky overhead, stark industrial light reflected by white tiles fills the car. Gil clearly watches Malcolm's pale hand settle on his leg. Malcolm doesn't go for the crotch, just lets himself touch another man, an older man, far past the time limit of being able to laugh it off as a joke, like a child. Gil can't take his hands off the wheel, with the narrow lanes, and the traffic tightly bottlenecked.

Gil doesn't swat away his touch nor does he encourage Malcolm to go any further in the car.

"I have a reservation at a bed 'n' breakfast in Williamsburg. That's in Virginia. After the Turnpike, Delaware, and then Baltimore. Think you can hang on 'til we get a room?"

"Sounds like a plan, Gil. I haven't seen Virginia, besides Washington D.C."

"You're not going to see much of Virginia, either," says Gil. He is focused on the Turnpike. "Any time you want to turn back, you should tell me."

"This is fine," says Malcolm, over the Spanish dance music on Gil's playlist.

The only stop they make is at another plaza in Maryland. Gil switches on the blinkers and merges left. Malcolm eats a salad with grilled chicken. He keeps it down with plenty of dry croutons. Despite his inexperience with people, Malcolm understands that strenuous activity on an empty stomach is a disaster waiting to happen.

Malcolm's eyes water in the brisk walk from Gil's parked car to the room that Gil checks into. His fly sunglasses do not shield him from particulate allergens, alas! The trees are as tall as the ones in Central Park, but have more leafy branches loaded with pollen.

The room has pink flower wallpaper and mint green carpet. The curtains are white but they look thick enough to block out sunlight.

Gil uses their bathroom first. Malcolm rummages through his duffel for allergy nasal spray and the roll of toilet paper pilfered from Remington. The toilet paper is a large fist sized wad when Malcolm hears the lock click. He drops the toilet paper and kicks it under the ruffled bed skirts.

Gil is in a T-shirt and boxers. Malcolm looks up from Gil's bare feet to Gil toweling off his black hair.

"My turn," says Malcolm, darting past Gil. He slams the bathroom door a bit harder than he means to.

He's too shy to go back out and retrieve his bag of clothes.

"Welp. I guess I'm going out there without clothes," quips Malcolm to his reflection. His eyes are red and zombie-like because of the dark circles. Not a good look. Malcolm slumps into the humid bathtub and stands under the hot spray.

He hurries it up when he realizes that his actual ID is inside the duffel bag, totally open to perusal.

Malcolm scrubs his hair and gives his damp body the quickest brush with the towel before he lunges into the bedroom. He hurries, fearful that his nerves will fail him. The bedroom is empty. He takes a bit more time to blowdry his hair when he gets a knock on the door.

"Gil?"

"It's me."

"Come in," says Malcolm. He can't help but hold onto the towel, at waist level, when the door swings in.

"I grabbed drinks," says Gil. He has a bottle of wine. The round table in the bedroom already has drink glasses and a large glass pitcher of water with lemon slices.

"Thank you. I'll have a glass," says Malcolm. He lays down the towel and brings the empty glass cups to Gil. "Don't you need a corkscrew?"

"It's a twist off," says Gil. He doesn't move to pour their drinks. 

Malcolm gets hot from Gil's staring. He ducks his head to hide any shyness. It's probably obvious to an older man, but he's not experienced. Sometimes he doesn't come when he touches himself.

Gil's hand tucks back the brown hair that falls into Malcolm's eyes. Malcolm also lacks the experience to read Gil's thoughtful expression.

"What?" says Malcolm. He can appreciate silence, but not long, quiet glances.

"For a second, I thought I went to the wrong room. Your eyes are very beautiful, now that I get to see them," says Gil. His gaze naturally drifts all over Malcolm's nudity, but he is intent on Malcolm's smile.

"Thank you, again. You're also very handsome yourself. Have you read The Highwayman?" asks Malcolm.

"I haven't heard of it. Is that a book?"

"It's a poem. I suddenly thought of it because of your, um, well, your dark looks. Which lend themselves to the heroic archetype." Malcolm pauses. "Right, can I get that wine now?"

"Kid, you're flattering me. I can take a compliment," laughs Gil. His laugh pours out like the wine.

Malcolm savors the moment, the citric notes on the tip of his tongue. While he sips, Gil plays music from a portable speaker wired to his mp3 player. It's not music that Malcolm would ever listen to, at home or at school. He feels giddy and loosened up.

Gil's kiss tastes so good. Malcolm is hooked instantly. The room spins a little when Gil picks him up. Malcolm holds on until he is gently dropped onto the bed, on the soft quilted blanket. Gil's shirt hits the blanket. Gil kicks off his sweatpants. His hand feels too hot, in a fantastic way, just touching Malcolm's slim chest, grabbing the back of his neck, and pinning him down for deeper kisses, like he wants to eat Malcolm alive.

His eyes almost cross when Gil rolls his hip from on top, rubbing his cock along Malcolm's. Malcolm groans when Gil takes him in hand. He clutches at Gil's back and struggles for breath. 

His fingers dig in from Gil's facial hair tickling a very sensitive area that he just found out existed. Gil shrewdly catches on from Malcolm's surprised moan. Gil wastes no time kissing and sucking on Malcolm's neck. Very soon, Malcolm is leaking nut onto Gil's fingers.

"Oh, please. Please. Please, Gil." Malcolm isn't really sure what he's begging for. It's everything he can do to avoid creaming himself when he gets eyefuls and handfuls of the sexy man holding him down.

"What do you like? How do you want it, baby?" Gil's breath is also quickening, but he's going slowly, containing himself. Gil is strong enough to just take Malcolm, but he's not going to be forceful or demanding.

The way that Gil handles him makes Malcolm feel wild. Gil's touch is firm but not too heavy. Gil smells good after the shower and he's warming up Malcolm just right even with the both of them lying on top of the quilt.

"Fuck me," whispers Malcolm. It's what he really wants despite his quiet voice. Somehow, saying it to Gil makes him want it more. "Fuck me, Gil." Oh, he wants to say it again and again with Gil moving inside him.

"Can I fuck you like this?" replies Gil. 

Malcolm shakes his head, tongue tied from Gil's cock throbbing on his damp palm.

Gil kisses Malcolm's smooth, white chin. His beard skims Malcolm's cheek. His voice dips into Malcolm's ear, whisper soft and sinful. "I'd love to fuck you, baby."

"I need lube. And I have to. I need my fingers," stutters Malcolm. He bites down a whimper from Gil's hand squeezing his ass and fondling his crevice, his pucker.

"Can I watch you play with yourself?" Gil's voice deepens.

"Yes, God. Yes! Go into my bag. Smallest zipper pocket inside. Please." Malcolm would retrieve it himself if he wouldn't fall over. The lube is a 2 oz bottle that he hid behind the nightstand in a tight space, off the floor and away from nosy dorm mates.

Malcolm pours too much into his palm. He shoves in a finger spilling with cold lube and shivers. It'll warm up inside his body soon enough.

Gil grabs Malcolm's cock with a lubed up hand, stroking and squeezing until Malcolm groans for him to stop.

"Why should I stop making you feel good?" retorts Gil. His fingers twist over the shaft of Malcolm's cock, thumb rubbing out the sensitive tip. The wet and warm pressure almost triggers Malcolm into spilling. Malcolm goes for Gil's hand and pushes back.

"No. Fuck me, Gil. Fuck it out of me. Don't make me come." The more that Malcolm imagines Gil's cock inside him while he's also hard, the less Malcolm wants to blow it prematurely.

"Then let me in, baby." Gil hitches up Malcolm's leg and pushes his finger into Malcolm's hole, already stretched around three of Malcolm's fingers. He kisses the back of Malcolm's leg. Malcolm's head lulls, eyes screwing shut when Gil thrusts his finger, opens him differently than how he does himself in private.

Despite his tired leg muscles, his aching wrist, and the burn ringing his hole, Malcolm thinks he can ignore it all for Gil. Gil's cock is slick with warm lube, but it still hurts. Still makes him cry, tear drops rolling when Malcolm closes his eyes and exhales to make room for Gil.

He can't believe how sharp the pain becomes, feels like Gil is spearing into him. 

"Gil! Oh, Gil," pants Malcolm. He takes refuge in the sweet kiss that Gil offers. He is feverish, sweaty, and awfully tight. 

"There we go, there baby," says Gil. He grips Malcolm's waist and thrusts hard, once, pushing through Malcolm's breathless scream. Gil's tongue and lips find Malcolm's neck once more. Malcolm's hips buck, moving his stretched pucker up and down the base of Gil's cock, his pained whine settling into a needful moan. Malcolm squeezes himself with Gil circling his hips and pounding hard and slow with each gentle pass.

"Keep those pretty eyes on me, baby. See what you look like when you lose it on my cock," says Gil, grunting as he thrusts faster, as Malcolm opens to him deeper. "Oh, Christ! I love fucking you, beautiful. Fuck, you ride with me now. I fuck you here to Miami, if that's how you want it."

"Yes, Gil! Take me with you. Take--" Malcolm's lashes flutter, pleas breaking into needful sounds when Gil's cock rams into a sweet spot. Gil does it again, jaw dropping when Malcolm tightens up and comes unbelievable amounts. Malcolm can't help himself, writhing and nearly bucking Gil off, coating both of them with cum. Gil pulls out to feel that hot clench squeezing the head of his cock. Gil jerks off and stiffens bodily as he comes inside Malcolm.

The damp towel which Malcolm dropped on the bed turns out to be handy. They both need to clean up without leaving the bed.

In the morning, Malcolm awakens to a warm weight on top of him. He plays with Gil under the quilt until he's rolled onto his stomach and made to pay for his teasing. 

In one of the Carolinas, Malcolm greedily sucks Gil's dick after Gil fuels up. The smell of Gil's body overrides the diesel and exhaust when Gil pushes his head down and pumps away. When they get to a long, empty stretch on 95 S, Gil rubs out Malcolm's boner and praises Malcolm for cleaning off his fingers. Malcolm scrapes cum from his bottom lip with his teeth, and says nothing about the ring missing from Gil's finger.

When they hit Georgia, Malcolm tries fucking on top, inside the Pontiac, falling onto Gil's lap over and over. They're both drunk on bourbon and each other. The AC is on full blast to keep the windows from fogging. Gil is not cracking open the windows because between the two of them, they netted a dozen bug bites. Gil twitches inside him and his lips caress Malcolm's ear.

"I'm fucking a child," mumbles Gil.

"You're fucking me, Gil. Don't do this," says Malcolm. He nips at Gil's mouth, nuzzles against the beard.

"What would she think?" Gil presses his face into Malcolm's shirt, his panting breaths heating up the fabric dampened by sweat, another woman's name from his mouth.

Malcolm waits until they're on the 46 mile stretch before Florida, where Gil cannot, in good conscience, leave him to the gators.

"What happened to Jackie?"

"That was another lifetime ago," says Gil.

Malcolm unbuckles his seat belt and points to a barren stretch of fuck all. "Well, this has been fun. If you pull into that shoulder, Señor, our paths may diverge amicably."

"You're crazy. You'll step into a swamp and be up to your ears," says Gil.

"I'm not going another hundred odd miles with someone who doesn't want to talk," says Malcolm.

"Oh, that's rich, kid! I couldn't pry any of your information out of you even if I had a crowbar," says Gil.

"Did you want insight into my traumatic childhood? I'm sorry I can't pull up a slideshow. I miss my daddy a lot and I used to cry frequently on a daily basis. But I processed what happened. Enough that I don't think about daddy when I'm with you," says Malcolm. "Perhaps it would behoove you to examine why you would cry over someone when you're having relations with a third party."

"You come off as the bitchiest encyclopedia I've ever met," says Gil.

"I am well versed in extraneous topics. Your interpretation of how I dispense information is purely subjective." Malcolm crosses his arms and tucks in his ankles.

"Damn it. Jackie pulled this crap on me, too. Specifically when we were speeding on an interstate. No escape going 80 or 90," says Gil. His knuckles lighten in color, from his death grip. "Almost two years ago, I sat in court and looked at the shit stain responsible for her death. He shaved his head but had a little rat tail, meaning no offense to rodents. He was a kid. Couldn't be tried as an adult."

"So what the fuck do age limits matter when you're a teen and you end someone's world?" says Gil. "Or when you are forty three and you have nothing to show for it! You can't even do your job until you fix your compromised ideals of right and wrong."

Malcolm puts his head onto Gil's shoulder while they both go nowhere at 70 mph.

"How fast can your car go?"

"What?" Gil laughs from Malcolm's leaping thoughts.

"Well, if age is a suggestion... Vroom, vroom?"

Gil shifts gears and breaks another limit, flying down the highway to hell, so fast that their thoughts get left in the dust.

They hole up for a week in Miami before Gil talks him into calling home. Malcolm refuses a plane ticket and hangs up the room phone to avoid tracing. By the time any authorities knock, they'll be gone.

"I've informed my parental unit that I will be returning home." Malcolm crawls under the sheet. A single blue eye, bright as marble, peeks at Gil.

"And when will that be, Mal?" asks Gil.

"Depends on how long it takes for you to drop me off in New York."

Gil's arms fold around Malcolm who curls on his warm chest like the cat that got the cream.

"It so happens that you're going my way. What's say we take the scenic route, baby?" Gil's fingers walk up and down Malcolm's spine.

"Mmmm," moans Malcolm, arching from Gil playing with him. "One more for the road?" Gil rolls on top of him and shuts him up with another beard-y kiss.

(After Gil meets his weepy mother and makes the introductions, Malcolm winks a blue eye at him and discreetly asks, "Who the eff is Lieutenant Arroyo?")

**Fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all can thank IllestRin for making me crave more underage Malcolm. 
> 
> Cuz Malcolm's dripping hair coming out of that pool in the Murder School episode withered my ovaries. ^_^U
> 
> Update: I made a correction. Malcolm yeeted his phone while hitchhiking. He calls home from a room phone.


End file.
